Come and Go
by Shadow131
Summary: Hey, look! I'm not dead! What if Les Mis wasn't published in the 1800's but in the 2000's? The Mizzies have been placed in modern day 2004, U.S.A, and things are bound to change. Please R&R. Please!
1. A Not So Upright Man

**Come and Go: Chapter One: A Not So Upright Man**

**Disclaimer: I honestly thought of this idea myself, but, as has been proven before in the past, I have had the same ideas as other people without even knowing it. If this proves to be not quite an original idea, I swear to God I didn't steal it, and apologize. But, onto the more important stuff of disclaimers: These characters belong to Victor Hugo. I didn't change the names to avoid confusion. I will try, sincerely hard to keep these characters in character, but that does not guarantee success. Now, onto my note!**

**A.N.: Hey there, and welcome to another fic of Shadow13 (growls they made me add the one even though the other guy with the name Shadow13 only has one fic. I still claim this name! snarl)! Why am I writing another one? Most of the one's I'm writing are no where near to being done. Well, it's my life, and I'm tired of it being even remotely organized, though this would help me out a bit, heh heh.... Well. Any who, this all takes place in 2004 and up and in Oregon. Why Oregon? Because that's where I live, so it'll be easier for me to translate the area. All of the mentioned cities and buildings exist except for certain churches, homeless shelters, etc. I'll try to keep as accurate as possible. Also, I have made Javert's first name Andrew because it's pretty normal and his first name is never mentioned in the book. I will mention a sworn officer later on in the fic. A sworn officer, versus a non-sworn officer: I have to double check this with my dad (he's a cop) but I believe only sworn officers work on the street and do guard duty in prisons. Also, I believe they're the only ones who can earn military names such as Sergeant, and Lieutenant. However, still unsure, I believe non-sworn officers can become managers. And now, finally, on to the fic!**

The motor of the ford purred in the very capable hands of a one Mr. Jean Valjean, first time auto thief. He was not the before mentioned by choice, but rather, by necessity. Before, he had been an auto mechanic – which made this all the easier – but the recession had hit Forest Grove a bit hard, and he had been laid off. Unemployment was not enough to pay the bills and keep him, his sister – a widow, so he was the only one left to care for her – and her children fed, clothed, schooled, and healthy. When a man has no obvious means for support there isn't much choice.

A thief it would be.

He had a few "friends," who were always happy to sell something (for a small percentage, of course) and not turn the donor in. Valjean had had no choice.

The hard truth of it was, however, Valjean, never truly tempted by a glamorous life of crime, wasn't any good at it. On his virgin attempt, he was caught.

He begged, he pleaded, he prayed for mercy, for them to let him go. His defense attorney, so kindly provided by the Great State of Oregon, did all he could, but in the end, Valjean hadn't a hope in the world. After the unanimous verdict of guilty, Valjean was too frightened out of his wits to give a thought as to what would become of his sister. He shook and shivered ceaselessly on his trip to his new home for the next year and a half.

Looking back on it, he could have kicked himself. He could have applied for welfare, traveled around for a job, begged, done something, _anything_ but break the law. He might have been able to get by quite well until jobs opened up again. What an idiot he had been!

The Men's Correctional Institute of Oregon, located in the capital, Salem, was not a terribly bad place. It was no heaven. No prison ever is. The rule of not dropping the soap applied, of course, but Valjean always had a good firm grip on it. The food wasn't _that_ bad, but it was just barely edible at times. There was a certain system, a definite trustworthiness. You don't lie to the Lieutenant, the Lieutenant don't lie to you. You don't screw with anybody, nobody screw with you. And while that system might work for some, it did nothing to steady the unsteady Valjean. Every night he relived the horror of being put in prison, the cold, emotionless voices that he heard, taking his picture, his eyes wide in shock, and the number they now gave him as an easier means of identification: 24601. This all combined to force Valjean to recede into his own little bubble, his own little world.

And it was a dark, dark world.

The fact that he only had another year to go before he went before the parole board (he stood a good chance. He'd behaved well and he wasn't a danger to society) meant nothing to him once his brain finally snapped. The human brain can only take so much monotony, only so many orders and restrictions, only so many nights sweating in a cell knowing you were surrounded by bars, and as far as Valjean knew (this was how mad he had grown) he was never getting out. It was hell.

Mortal, living men can only take so much hell until there are few options left: Death or Flight. Valjean, the great idiot, chose flight.

But then, if he hadn't, many things would be different.

He did not even remember how he did it, he did not remember if he formulated a plan. His instinct took control and he was out!

Out.....

The moon was bright, and Valjean stood still, stupidly staring at it and not making a break for it, just staring. For a moment, Jean Valjean the sane seemed to swoop back in, and he felt like crying.

The moon!

That is why, when the guards swooped down on him, his instinct took over once more and he fought, viciously, hurting one pretty badly. No! Not back! He would not go back to a cage!

It was a known fact that could not be avoided. He lost.

...

The highest ranking officer at The Men's Correctional Institute of Oregon was a one Andrew Javert. He was a cold, serious man, who had disturbingly clear eyes that very rarely showed emotion. His face was covered by two bushy sideburns and a snub nose. He was a terrible sort of person, who's only joy was in carrying out a work well done. One always felt ill at ease around him. He was not liked by his fellow officer or by the sworn men who worked at the State Prison, which did not bother him. However, no one ever disobeyed an order given under Javert, and the clean order and neatness with which he ran the prison made him a shoe-in for a higher position either in Salem, or somewhere really big and important like Portland. If he ever caught the notice of the mayor, he stood a good chance at being named Chief of Police, so good was he at his work. But all this did put him at a bit of a disadvantage, for while he was respected – it was more of feared – he was not loved, and it was highly unlikely that anyone other than upper management would miss him once he went onto bigger and better things or retired. But oh, Javert would most definitely go on to bigger and better things! No one doubted that!

He had little patience for convicts who attempted escape, so when prison number 24601 was presented to him – disheveled and disoriented – he glared down at the man, who looked something like a deer caught in headlights. He got the details of the escape from the officers that presented him and pressed the sad, sorry man for answers.

"So why did you run?"

"I wanted to see the moon," came the simple, terrified answer. Javert raised an eyebrow and decided that he might have to bring in the physiatrist to look at this one.

"And how did you get out?"

"I don't know."

"You _what_?" Javert asked incredulously.

"Yes, sir, I do not know. One moment I was in my cell, the next moment, I was outside. Really, that's all there was to it." Yes, Javert would definitely have to bring in the physiatrist for this one. Javert sighed, put a hand to his temple, and waved them away. He poured himself a cup of coffee – only drunken to keep him awake – and started drawing up the papers to put before the judge.

...

For the crime – reasonably minor – the punishment was a sever one: Another five years in prison, with no possibility for parole until all were served. With the one still left to go, that made six. The plea of insanity did not sit with the judge. A physiatrist _did_ meet with 24601, and other than a little shaken up from being in prison – who wouldn't be shaken up? – he was most definitely sane enough to know when he was attacking an officer and escaping from prison.

And had he ever done a number on that cop!

Javert certainly didn't argue with the results. He liked dealing out harsh punishments.

The verdict paralyzed Valjean, who curled up on his bunk and did not move for several hours, so that no one could tell if he was sleeping, awake, or dead. Valjean was no young man, so he was prone to fall asleep faster than his cell mates.

Another year went by for Valjean, whose hair had grayed quite a bit since arriving at prison over a year ago. He had totally receded into his bubble now, and did not speak. And then, once more, his instinct seized his mind, he went mad, he broke loose.

"And what now?" Javert demanded of the repeat offender, who had knocked one officer totally unconscious. He'd scaled a wall for crying out loud! A wall with not a crack to be seen that was thirty feet and went straight up! With barbed wire on top and everything! He'd gotten down without as much as a scratch! "Was there a lunar eclipse?" he raged.

"No, sir," said Valjean meekly.

"Well?"

"Orion was out."

Javert blinked and sputtered out "Orion?"

"It's a constellation, sir."

"I know that it's a constellation!" he shouted. "You mean to tell me you risked life and limb just to see a bunch of stars?" said the now incredulous Javert.

"It was very pretty, sir."

Javert was tempted to bang his head on his desk. The things he had to deal with! He mumbled curse words under his breath and finally sighed. "Fine. Take him away." Javert gulped down his coffee and started working on the report.

...

The second was no better than the first. Another five years tacked on. That made eleven. Valjean did not last six months before the next one.

Javert did not speak a word, just watched, silently, at the master Houdini. It was the cleverest, the most difficult, and the most _amazing_ escape attempt he'd ever seen. The man might be growing mad, or at least senile, but he was, when it came to escapes, a genius! It had taken a phenomenal amount of strength to do what he did!

"A meteor shower," he explained.

Javert let go an aggravated breath, paced a few steps, his hand to his temple, and finally spoke. "Go. Just go."

...

It seemed everyone had grown quite weary of 24601's escape attempts and intended to get rid of them for good: Eight more years in prison, and one month spent in solitary confinement. That made nineteen years. Nearly two decades. When tossed into solitary confinement, Valjean quietly curled into a ball and wept.

...

No one would have recognized the old, grizzly man after twenty years in a prison. His hair had gone grey, his eyes had gone emotionless, and he'd completely receded into himself. So much the better for Javert, who had had no more trouble from the renegade 24601.

Even with all this change about him, a light seemed to go on in Valjean's head the day he heard the Parole Board was letting him out. He looked about at everything as though he had only just noticed its existence. He only winced a little when he saw Javert.

"So, today's the day, hm, 24601?" he asked snidely.

"My name's Jean Valjean," 24601 challenged.

"Not here it's not. Personally, I don't see why they're letting you out," said the officer, changing the subject.

"I didn't hurt anyone," the poor, wretched man protested.

"Scum like you? The lot of you is a threat to society." Valjean winced at the harsh words. "But this is not the point." He pointed to the man standing in the corner. "That is Officer James Rowe. He is your parole officer. You are to report to him once a month. And, I will require where you intend to be going after leaving."

"Milwaukie," he said eagerly. (A.N.: waves little flag for home town) "I heard my sister is there."

What no one knew was that Valjean's sister was dead. He was going on a fool's mission.

"That's a bit of a trek," admitted Rowe. "How will you get there?"

"Steel another car?" Javert said snidely, glaring down at the poor wretch.

Valjean shook his head vigorously no. "I'm walking."

"All the way to Milwaukie?" asked an incredulous Officer Rowe.

The old man nodded furiously. "I might hitch-hike too. Just so I don't have to walk back and forth all the time, is a phone call enough?" he asked Officer Rowe.

Rowe was a kind man, with a gentle, forgiving disposition. Javert never allowed convicts to only phone back. What kind of proof was that? But Valjean was no longer under Javert's care, and Rowe proved this point by agreeing a phone call was enough. Valjean was given the money he had earned over the twenty years in the prison, and the few personal possessions he had owned and was showed out side. The old man left the room in ecstasy. Rowe was about to walk out after him when Javert called out to him.

"Best watch yourself, Rowe," he said snidely. Rowe clenched a fist, but turned, and said respectfully to the commanding officer "Sir," and left.

...

Valjean walked for miles and miles, stopping wherever his money was accepted (it was amazing how many places reserved the right to refuse service to anyone) or working wherever anyone would hire him. He was working as a berry picker on a farm (Oregon was famous for its berries) when the manager paid him the amount he'd earned (it was minimum wage) and told him to leave.

"But the day's not over!" Valjean protested.

"That's tough. Here's you money, now get off my property!" Valjean, hurt and confused, obediently scurried off. The real trouble had started when an old woman had given him some quarters and told him not to spend it on booze.

Booze!

What he wanted was food, a job, a place to sleep!

Booze!

That is what everyone thought of him?

It was a very long walk to Milwaukie. If he was looking to be about people more like himself – former convicts – he could go sleep by the train tracks that ran repeatedly through the town. He decided against it. That was more sexual predator territory, and he was no sexual predator.

Milwaukie was a pretty poor town. The richer people lived in stately houses by the river. There were a few streets where the middle class lived in comfort and relative safety, and then the rest were the ones that were not quite so rich. The town's mayor (A.N.: so true XD!), a man named Bernard, was also the town's mechanic and he owned Bernard Auto. Valjean had tried to get a job there, but they simply didn't need the help. The Leading Library was up to its ears in volunteers, and none of the other smaller businesses wanted him. The high school –Milwaukie High, home of the Mustangs (A.N.:waves little flag for High School Mustang Born, Mustang Bred! Gonna Be a Mustang till I'm dead!) – did not need anyone else, and the other high schools – Milwaukie was the only one in the downtown area – were too rich to need any other vagabond staff.

It was a small city with only about 20,000 people, miniscule compared to near by Portland. The other cities around it more or less blended so that unless you lived in the area, it was hard to tell where one ended and another began. Milwaukie had a small, ancient movie theater, a hospital, a few churches, a few schools, a Christmas Tree Farm, a Vegetable Farm, a Middle School, two private schools, and remnants of once prosperous berry farms everywhere.

...

On Boss Lane there was a nice church named Milwaukie Lutheran Church (A.N.: waves flag for her church I heart you Milwaukie Lutheran! Also, the pastor I'm about to mention was once our real pastor. He has retired due to health problems). It sat comfortably snuggled between Rowe Middle School (A.N.: waves little flag for her former Middle School) and Vernie Avenue thought it was rather covered by a line of bushes. It was reasonably sized, with a tall roof that looked pretty distinctive, giving it good acoustics; a must have for a Lutheran Church, for Lutheran's loved their music.

Their pastor, a one Jim Leifeld, was a slightly older man, with sandy grey hair and blue eyes, though the left one roamed from surgery done on it. His eye sight might mean his retirement soon (A.N.: sobIt does!). He was a nice man who played Baritone – though he'd given his instrument to a young boy in the congregation – and drums, sang, and was generally helpful and kind.

It was on this particular day, rainy, for this was Oregon. When the pastor had decided to take a break from the work he was doing that Monday afternoon, it had only been overcast, but not rainy. He had decided to walk to Milwaukie Floral, which was only about three blocks away, and see if he could buy a newspaper and then walk back. It sounded like a refreshing idea.

And it was! After his first half of the walk he felt much better, not so cooped up. But as he reached the last stretch back to the church, he was glad for buying the newspaper, for it served him as an umbrella, which he sorely lacked at the moment. And as he walked down the back hill into the back parking lot to walk through the back door – it was closer to his office than the front, and the only door left unlocked, generally – was when he spotted the odd old man, huddled in the bushes that so rudely hid the church from view.

He seemed weary and sullen, his eyes were slightly glazed over and they fearfully snapped to attention when Pastor Leifeld said "Hello." The man's eye's snapped into focus and he looked frightened as he backed away from the smiling man above him. "Would you like to come inside? We have coffee. Or tea, if you like that better. And I can see what we can scrounge up in the kitchen, if you're hungry."

"What?" the odd man asked confused.

"Come in!" Jim repeated.

...

"I'm afraid I don't have the money to pay for the food," the old man admitted after having a full stomach in what seemed like ages. The pastor waved that aside.

"Nonsense, I won't have you pay."

"I'm not a beggar," the old man said firmly.

"No, you're a guest in a house of God, and I will see you fed and rested until you wish to leave. What is your name?"

"It is unimportant."

"There are no unimportant names, God knows them all. What is yours?"

"Valjean," said the stunned man.

The old man trembled slightly as he looked around the large fellowship hall where the two were eating. "Would you like to look around?" Pastor Leifeld asked. The old man shook his head no in a frightened way, but Jim reassured him. "I'm just gong to be busy working. Take a look around and leave whenever you're ready." And with that, Jim got up and went back to his office.

That left the funny old man to look around, which he did. He found his was into the narthex, and from there, into the rest of the building. There was nothing of terribly great value, for the donations were locked snugly in the office, which was right next to Jim's office, so there was no possibility of breaking in. But behind the alter in a little room there were the chalices and bread baskets that were used in services on Sunday. They were made especially for the church, and were very pretty, though Valjean doubted he could get a good price on them. Still, any help was good help, and if he felt the large cross seemed to stare him down as he left, he was humming to himself "God Helps those who Help Themselves."

Jim, looking for wherever he had put his glasses, and believed them to be in the narthex, went looking for them there. He was just in time to see his guest leave out the front door, though the guest did not know he was being watched. Pastor Leifeld felt that, for a moment, he thought he saw the church's chalice stuffed into the man's coat pocket.

...

If Assistant Pastor Charles Mantey (A.N.: Our temporary Lead Pastor since Jim's retired) was worried when he realized something was terribly wrong – for the chalice was utterly gone! - , the elder Lead Pastor Jim Leifeld reassured him that he was cleaning it, it was at home, and that it would be back on Sunday. So Jim, insisting that he had everything under control - for it was only Tuesday! – sent Charles on home to spend time with his wife while Jim decided to formulate his next lie and figure out an excuse to either use the good silver chalice or buy a new one, wherever he could get one of those.

He was actually surprised by a knock on the door of the church and surprised to see an officer holding the arm of that funny old man from the day before. "We found him trying to pawn this off, and the Pawn Shop owner thought it rather odd to pawn off a chalice when it had the words 'Property of Milwaukie Lutheran Church' on the bottom of it, so he called us. This character –" here he hoisted Valjean back up to his feet, whilst the old man looked like he was in a bit of pain "- insists that you gave it to him, sir." Valjean would have fallen to his knees were it not for the officer holding him up. "If he's telling the truth, by all means, we'll release him, but, you see, he has a record, and if we need to get in contact with his parole officer and find out if he's been dodging parole, I'd like to save myself some time and know if you did actually give it to him." Valjean was about ready to weep.

Jim stared from the pitiful wretch of a man to the cool public servant and said without a trace of indecision "Yes, I gave it to him." Valjean raised his head and stared at his savior. The officer looked surprised, but let go of the convict's arm.

"All right then. Thank you for your cooperation, sorry to bother you."

"Oh, it's no bother at all! Have a good day, officer! God bless!"

Valjean had fallen to the smooth stone floor of the narthex, his head raised in shock. "You...lied to the police."

"Well nobody's perfect," Jim said with a smile.

"But...I stole that chalice! You could've turned me in and seen justice done!"

"There can be no justice without mercy. As for that chalice, you really ought to have hunted around a bit more and found our good silver one. It wouldn't have been half as missed, and given you twice the profit. I'll go get it then, shall I?" Valjean gapped at him as the pastor disappeared, returning with the pure silver chalice.

"I don't want it!" Valjean almost shouted his eyes wide with fear, as though it might burn him as Pastor Leifeld tried to give it to him.

"Take it!" Jim insisted. "And sell it! Do with it good, honest work! Become a good man and help the world. I have bought your soul for God."

Valjean broke down and wept.

**To Be Continued....**


	2. The Ascension

**Come and Go: Chapter Two: The Ascension**

**And now, onto my favorite part! Answering Reviews!**

AmZ: Thank you for your great support! I figured Hugo knew France basically up and down, so it would work better if I knew a place up and down, even if places like New York seem more Parisian, so thank you Yes, I can see how the Authors Notes could get very annoying. Sorry.... Please feel free to point out any grammatical errors or spelling goofs! I really appreciate it! Thank you!

Elyse3: Yes, those A.N's are a bit annoying aren't they? Well, rest assured, nothing else takes place in my home town, so no need to add all my Home town spirit in. Heh, heh....Terribly sorry 'bout that. As for astronomer Valjean...Well, actually, I don't know why I did that....erm...

BellaSpirita: Yeah! That reinforces the idea that I had an original thought! I love it when I get those! Thank you very, very much! And thank you for putting Come and Go in your Favorite Stories list.

Nebulia: Thank you! I'm really glad I decided to write this now!

Alanna Rivers: Yes, yes. By this point, I realize that the Authors Notes are annoying.

**And Now, onto the Story!**

The Willamette (Pronounced Will-am-et) River was one of three tributaries of the larger, more substantial Columbia River. It was not the biggest of the three rivers, but it fed the lush, fertile Willamette Valley and more cities were located along its banks. It had never been a lovely, crystal clear river. It was too deep for that, and so it was green. None of this was helped by the sewage pumped into it, so that one had to be mad, suicidal, or desperate to drink out of it.

Valjean, who was standing on the Jefferson Street Docks, was not any save for possibly mad, and he was not thirsty, so it did not matter. The Jefferson Street Docks, located at the edge of downtown Milwaukie, really did need repairing. Just the other day, a teenage girl had slipped and fallen climbing out of her family's small boat and sliced her elbow pretty badly. The concrete by the water's edge was slick, and the fowls that lived at the waters edge also left their droppings at the waters edge, which only made things smellier and slicker. But the city was broke, and the City Council, inactive, so it was highly unlikely anything would ever be done about the dock.

Valjean was not thinking about the state of the docks, the geese that were starting to hiss at him, or the large moon which was glittering off the water. He was thinking about the chalice that he held in his hands, the starlight reflecting off the silver cup. How much money could he get for it? Would it even really matter?

Oh, he hated himself! He hated himself so thoroughly that he wished someone would just beat the tar out of him to make him feel better. Why, he wasn't sure. I told you, he was slightly mad! What good could he possibly do? Oh, why had the man told him he was now purified! Surely it was impossible!

"If the priest said it wasn't, surely it wasn't!" the sane side, the side that would breed his faith, said. And slowly, Valjean began to agree. He began to stare at the goblet and could see it all unfold. He could be an honest man, and he could make the priest proud! He could give himself to God! There was only one thing hindering him:

His record.

Good men of God, so he gathered, should not have records of two decades in prison. It simply didn't work like that. But how could he simply erase twenty years of his life? Javert would be laughing in his face at the very attempt.

It was now, finally, that Valjean's mind slowly worked its way into noticing the state of the dock, and it was a bad state. A wizened old man – not unlike Valjean, for instance – could easily fall doing something very simple and innocent. Like? Well, like feeding the ducks! Yes, feeding the ducks! If he fell, he could hit his head on the pavement and bash his fragile skull, or break a few bones and roll into the river and drown. There was no telling what might happen should an old man like Valjean fall!

So, Valjean, he decided, had fallen, and had whacked his head against the old pavement, and had died instantaneously. Jean Valjean was, as far as this now nameless man was concerned, dead.

Without another look at the spot where he had died, Valjean turned smartly on his heels, and got ready for the long, long, long walk to his goal: Astoria.

...

Far, far away, five years later, the sun was setting in Tillamook, cheese capital of Oregon. It bore the name with pride, though the people this story concerns were not, themselves, workers with any sort of dairy.

A woman sat on the back porch of Tillamook's The Waterloo Inn, where she lived and worked, and lovingly watched her daughters playing in the grass and by the edge of the pristine Umpqua River. Her eldest, Eponine, was just three, and Azelma was two. Her husband was inside doing book keeping, and it was left to his wife, Mrs. Thenardier to keep track of her beloved angels.

No one who would have looked at the young woman walking down the road could have guessed as to her purpose. She held about her a sweet sense of serenity; from the carpet bag she dragged along with her, to the lovely, sleeping child lying nestled in her arms. Such angelic looks they had on there faces.

The young woman – her name was Fantine – was just twenty one. The child she carried so tenderly was three. Fantine had been a reasonably successful person in High School. Her parents were divorced, her mom did drugs (she lived with her mother), her grades weren't anything to brag about, but certainly not horrid. But of course, the bad home life made her miserable, and she looked forward to the day she would graduate and leave home forever, and maybe, just maybe, be happy.

But God, she thought, had graced her, for the happiness she sought seemed to have arrived early in a young man named Logan Lewis. He had a shock of brown hair and crisp, gray eyes, and he found Fantine sincerely attractive, though if he loved her or not, nobody knew. Fantine was certain that he must, for she adored him, and the two steadily dated for months, and Fantine was happier than she'd ever been before.

Fantine was rich in three ways: gold, pearls, and sapphires. The gold was on her head, the pearls were in her mouth, and the sapphires were in her eyes, and she never considered that beauty alone was what drove Logan to desire her, and maybe like her. He really didn't love her.

When Logan's life began to fall apart, the only answer he could come up with was to drop out and run away. It wasn't the best of plans, but it could work! Fantine became absolutely terrified at the prospect of living practically totally alone again; never wanting to revert to such a dark world as her family was again. The answer for her was simple too: follow him. Logan didn't mind. He was born selfish, and would love the company. It wasn't necessarily a sensible plan. But then, Fantine was only seventeen; she didn't have the sense to be sensible yet. So, off they went!

Fantine kept on asking, so Logan kept on promising; when he had a steady job, and enough money, of course they could get married! Until then, no one said they couldn't have sex! And so, for two years, they lived together, and Fantine was happier than she'd ever been before. She had a job, she helped pay bills, she was young, she was in love....Nothing, it seemed, could go wrong!

That is, until _it_ happened.

Fantine's darling daughter may have been the end result of a broken condom, but Fantine would never treat her that way. She was a symbol of love between she and Logan. Logan, however, didn't see things in quite the same light. One week after finding out she was pregnant, and six days after loosing the long argument about abortion, Logan was gone. Fantine was confused at first. Why should her being pregnant change anything? She and Logan were in love, weren't they? They were getting married, weren't they? When Fantine realized how stupid she'd been, she wept desolately for two days, not knowing what to do.

But the child in her womb needed tending, and so Fantine cared for herself as best she could, working until her pregnancy just became too advanced, and then a few friends at work helped her get by, and drove her to the hospital when the time came.

Fantine would pour love onto her darling little Cosette. She gave her ceaseless kisses, never complained about getting up in the middle of the night to tend to her, and never ever seemed to wish she'd never been pregnant, no matter the disastrous consequences.

And so, after Cosette was born, Fantine continued to work, but the constant strain of having to provide for two mouths and the other things those two mouths needed had begun to wear on Fantine. Despite her friend's suggestions, she refused to put Cosette up for adoption; she loved her too much. Her whole world would come crashing down without her. Indeed, Fantine felt like she might die without her beloved little angel, Cosette.

But hope was on the horizon; Fantine had another plan. Astoria, where she'd been born and raised. She surely would be able to find someone she knew there, and they might give her a job! Custard King, the Dentistry Office, _someone_ would give her a job! And Cosette would stay with someone else, so Fantine needn't worry over her constantly, but would of course send money to have her looked after.

Fantine had been heading north, towards Astoria, when she'd entered Tillamook – walking, always walking – and ran across The Waterloo Inn. The sweet, angelic sound of two little girls laughing and playing had been too much for Fantine to resist, and she entered the large, grassy area with trepidation, but elation when she saw how happy the mother looked, and how wonderfully cared for the girls were. This was it. She knew she would never find a more perfect place than this right here if she looked for a hundred years!

The two little girls saw the young woman, and paused to wave and the elder one shouted "Hi!" Fantine laughed slightly, and waved back. The young girls' mother turned to see who they were waving at, and saw the lovely Fantine with surprise.

"Hello," they're mother said. "Are you here to rent a room for the night?"

"I, well, no...." Fantine began. "You see, I'm heading towardsAstoria, and-"

"My God, but that's far! Too far to travel with such a young girl."

"Yes!" Fantine quickly agreed. This might work out after all. "That's why I'm here. I need a place to keep Cosette-" here she paused to kiss the sleeping child's soft brow "-while I look for work. When I have enough money, I will bring her home to live with me! Of course I will pay by the month to keep her...."

"You mean here?" Mrs. Thenardier asked with surprise.

"Oh, please!" begged Fantine. "Please! I need a friend! I need a place to keep Cosette. I will not be able to take care of her if she stays with me. I'll send you sixty dollars a month!"

"Six months in advance!" a deep, male voice called from the door. Mr. Thenardier loomed there. "Does she have any clothes?" Fantine indicated the carpet bag. "You will have to leave those here."

"Of course!" Fantine agreed. "I would not leave my child naked." She pulled the money out of her wallet and handed it to the man who snatched it up.

"Very well. Sixty dollars a month."

Fantine tightly clutched her little child, planting kisses on her cheeks, and finally, released her into Mrs. Thenardier's waiting arms. Fantine quickly walked away from that place, silently sobbing until she could not cry anymore.

...

Mr. Madeline had come to Astoria five years previous with not much money, but enough to start a factory of making beads and necklaces. The factory thrived. Anyone who sincerely wanted a job and needed a job could get one at Mr. Madeline's factory. He had only one requirement: Be honest.

Astoria had never, ever been a rich town. Even when John Jacob Astor had founded it – though it had only been a meager Fur Trading fort – in 1811. It had been very pristine and pleasant, but was, all in all, not spectacular. But it was a nice enough place, and Mr. Madeline had a keen affection for it and its citizenry. He poured money into charities and attended mass every Sunday. No one, it seemed, could find fault with such a good man as Madeline! That is why they wanted him to run for mayor.

But something – no one ever really knew what – always held Mr. Madeline back, and despite all pleas, he never ran for election. Until, one day, entering his factory, his secretary had become fed up with all the phone calls of local political parties begging him to run. "A good mayor is a good thing!" she cried. "Are you afraid of the good you can do?" And so, Madeline ran, and was elected hands down.

And so it was that when Fantine entered little Astoria, much had changed. The mayor, the money, even the police chief was new!

The year Mr. Madeline was elected, the previous police chief – who had been counting the days – finally retired, which left Madeline chief less, and he hadn't the slightest idea as to who to appoint.

"There's a man in Salem. He served under me once. Not particularly friendly, I'm sorry to say, but an excellent officer. Very fair, very just. He does his duty to his superior officers, and I doubt you'll find a better new chief than him," the former chief of police said. Madeline pounced upon the offer.

...

If Mr. Madeline did recognize Police Chief Javert, he gave no sign of it. If you were to guess who seemed to think they knew who, it was more likely that Javert seemed to know Mr. Madeline from a previous encounter, though the two had never met before. Javert would stare at him long and hard and try to decide if he knew this oddly familiar man or not, but he never could come up with anything.

But Javert is not the focus of the story. For now, Fantine is. She got a job at Madeline's factory, and for a while, everything went smoothly for her. She was being paid well, she was living reasonably comfortably, Cosette was happy, and she was sending the money on time; what could go wrong?

But after a year of working there, jealous co-workers had begun to spread insidious lies about her, and so, with only two weeks notice, Fantine was fired. She begged to see Mr. Madeline, to ask him why he had fired her, but the foreman told her that Mr. Madeline knew that she'd been fired, had approved, and hadn't the time to see a silly girl like her.

But Mr. Madeline never knew of any of this.

Devastated, Fantine got work wherever she could, waiting tables, flipping burgers, but all of these were temporary jobs and weren't paying her bills; she could not last like this. So, she moved to the slightly scummier, cheaper part of town, where a neighbor, the only one who seemed to care for her now, taught her how to live on crumbs, and how to make each dime stretch beyond reason. But Fantine still needed a job.

"Poor dear, you don't have any choice," the kindly old neighbor woman said. "You'll have to sell yourself."

At first, Fantine managed to avoid doing such things by selling any valuable possessions she owned, but hardship struck upon hardship. The Thenardiers wrote to her and told her that Cosette had become sick; they needed more money to help pay for her medicines. Finally, the woman was right, Fantine had no choice.

Oddly enough, she made friends among the prostitutes quite quickly, and they helped her out when Cosette's needs seemed to become dire. And so life continued on in such a way for another year, but Fantine was becoming sick. She hadn't been feeling all to well recently, and began to worry about her ability to perform her job to make money for Cosette.

A friend of hers was the mistress of a handsome young doctor, and so, she was given a free appointment. The doctor's findings were grave; Fantine had AIDs, and it was becoming terribly advanced. She would not live.

For one whole day, Fantine wept desolately in her small, dingy room. Was she to die, who would care for Cosette? Who would send the money? Would she ever see her beloved little angel, the light of her life, her daughter again?

And so, with AIDs, Fantine could no longer get work of the kind she was used to. Slowly, things got worse and worse, until Fantine was reduced to begging on the street. While begging outside of a local tavern in the cold of winter – it was an unusually hard winter, and it was snowy badly – a young teenage boy began to yell at her and call her names. Fantine ignored him as best she could but when he finally threw a snowball down her back, she went wild!

Fantine tackled and grappled with the boy, and men from inside the tavern poured out to jeer at the pair fighting in the snow like dogs. Suddenly, a firm hand came down oh her shoulder, and began to drag her out of the fight. Confused, Fantine looked up and stared straight into the cold face of the Chief of Police: Javert.

...

"Stop that sniveling!" he ordered, and Fantine tried her best to stop crying. "Go sit down somewhere! Over there, in that chair!" She scurried like a frightened rat over to the appointed chair, and sat stark still, barely moving to breath, except when she was racked by fits of coughing. When Javert had finished filling out paper work, he began to address her.

"You are under arrest for disturbing the peace. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one, one can be provided for you. Do you understand these rights as I have just read them to you?" Fantine nodded gravely. "Good," Javert said slickly.

"But sir, what are you going to do to me?"

"Put you through a hearing."

"And when will that be?"

"At the earliest? A month."

Fantine's eyes widened. "And where will I stay till then?"

"The county jail."

Now Fantine fell to the floor in a heap of sobbing, begging, and coughing. The poor wretch began to kiss his boots and the hem of his coat. "No, please, officer, I beg of you! I am sick, I need to work! My daughter, my Cosette! Who will take care of her if I can not pay her keep?" she begged of him, sobbing and sobbing.

"That is not my concern," he growled, prying her off of his boot.

"No, no! God, no! Please sir!"

"God nor anyone else can alter your sentence until you are put before a judge. Be quite, woman!"

"Inspector, I must beg to differ with you."

The two looked up to see Mr. Madeline, his hat in his hands. Javert stared at him, his jaw agape. "I fear you have made a terrible mistake."

Javert said nothing, he just stared. Fantine's face turned red with anger, and she spit at him. Javert glared down at her in turn and kicked her. "You wretch! Do you not know that is the mayor?"

"He is a scoundrel!" she shouted. "He fired me from his factory without just cause! I became a prostitute because of you!" she cried, glaring at who she deemed to be her persecutor, pausing to cough. "I got AIDs because of that! I am dying, and my daughter! Who will care for her when I am gone, Mr. Mayor?"

Madeline blinked in shock at this woman. "You were fired? But why?"

"Because the other factory women hated me, and spread lies about me! And you believed them!"

"I never heard anything of the sort," he assured her, bending low to the ground so they could meet face to face. Fantine's expression softened and she looked at him in amazement.

"What?" she breathed.

"Mr. Madeline, I must object. This woman is a criminal, and must be punished."

The mayor stood up now and looked at Javert. "And what has she done?"

"She has disturbed the peace and assaulted a gentleman."

"No, Chief Javert, I'm sorry, but I saw that fight. He was no gentleman."

Javert quickly switched tactics. "She is a prostitute. She just admitted to it."

"That is not her fault."

"It still requires punishment."

"And I say it doesn't."

Javert sputtered and blinked, utterly confused, and said nothing. "How much is her bail?" Madeline asked.

Javert glanced down at her. "Five hundred dollars."

"And you shall have it," the mayor promised. "Let me return home and I shall get it to you, or will you take me on credit, or a check?"

Javert despised taking checks, but there were no rules against it. "A check will do," he answered sharply.

Mr. Madeline filled out the check and smiled at Fantine, who had scurried back to her chair. "Well, my dear, it looks like you are free to go until the hearing."

Fantine stared from the police officer to the mayor, blinked, breathed in, and then promptly fainted.

...

Being a costal city, bad storms that blew in from the sea were occasionally to be expected. But there hadn't been this much mud in one for a long time. The car of a one Mr. Fauchelevent had spun out in all that mud, and toppled over. He was slowly being crushed by it when paramedics arrived on the scene.

It had been Javert's day off, but had been driving along the same stretch of road when the accident had occurred, so he ordered a jack as quickly as possible, but other cars had spun out, and other accidents were occurring in the storm; most jacks were being used. One could be procured, but it would take at least fifteen minutes.

Providence had Mr. Madeline also driving that cold, wet evening, and he too stopped at the scene. From what he saw, the poor wretched man didn't even have five.

"Look, there's still enough room for someone to crawl under and lift with his back! Fauchelevent can still be saved!"

"He'd have to be big as an ox...." Someone in the crowd murmured.

"Two hundred dollars for whoever does it!"

Not a stir.

"Five hundred!"

Not a sound.

"One thousand!"

"It is not the willingness they lack." Madeline spun around to find Javert's hawk eyes staring down at him. "They simply can't do it."

Madeline took another look at the dying Fauchelevent, and swallowed.

"I knew only one man with enough strength to do that," Javert continued. Madeline stared at him. "He was a convict."

"Ah," responded Madeline, looking back at Fauchelevent. Taking a deep breath, he crawled into the car and began to lift with his back, despite the many citizens crying out "No! Mr. Madeline, come out of there at once! You'll be killed!" Even Fauchelevent was crying it.

It made no difference to Madeline, who continued to lift, and shouted "Someone grab him!" when there was enough room to do so. Others helped heave the car up and Mr. Madeline crawled out, exhausted and covered with mud. He turned, and stared at Javert, who was staring at him.

The Chief of Police then turned and walked back to his car, intent on driving to the county seat.

**To Be Continued.....**


	3. To Love is to Let Go

**Come and Go: Chapter Three: To Love is to Let Go**

I hope you all enjoyed that last chapter, Authors Note free! Now it's time for the bestest part of all! Answering reviews!

Nebulia: Oh good, I'm glad I'm still in the spirit of the book. That's really hard to do. I figured I'd give her AIDs because it's sorta rampant, and if you're a prostitute you're pretty much cursed to get it. And I figured it made more sense for her to actually die of a deadly disease, since colds and flu are reasonably treatable now. As for why I chose Oregon: That's the state I live in, so I figured since Hugo knew France up and down, I better know a place up and down. He lived in France, I live in Oregon. I figure it pretty much works out. And they're about the same size. Not exact, but about.

Kang Xiu: Well, I hope you do become fond of it! Thanks for the grammar check! Come back soon!

LesMisLoony: Yeahness! munches cookie snugs Hooray Lutherans! O.O Sorry about that. Starting next week, my church will have two services: Traditional and Contemporary. I'm not a big Contemporary fan though, myself, but I might try it out once. I'm glad you like your new church. Power to the Lutherans! Our Jim was really nice..... But still, yeah Lutherans!

Elyse3: Thank you! Oh good, I'm glad I've interpreted him well. has inferiority complex about these things Gr! I seem to be having issues with my "theres"! I'll try and make sure not to miss that again.......

**And now, onto the chapter!**

Five years previous, in the city of Salem, a young man was in the backyard with his wife and two daughters, trying to remain calm. The man you are all familiar with: Officer James Rowe. It was one of those peaceful summer evenings that Oregon is so blessed in having, when the sun is warm and setting late, and this wonderful feeling of serenity drifts down onto you, and you could just be like this forever.

Unfortunately, poor Rowe was not getting any of that Summer Night Serenity. It was over the deadline for his current charge, a one Jean Valjean to call in for parole. James Rowe was a fair, compassionate man, and decided to wait a week for Valjean to call. So, nervously, Rowe had waited, and waited, but the call had never come.

"Don't make me do this, Jean, don't make me do this!" he whispered fiercely to himself. For he knew that if he told Inspector Javert that Valjean had broken his parole and gone missing, Valjean would be hunted down like a dog, and Rowe would have to put up with the "I told you so!" looks of the inspector.

"Call, Jean, call!" he now silently begged. But it had been of no use.

Why is this important to the series of events that have just occurred five years ahead in Astoria? Surely the reader can guess! No? Well then, let me divine it out for you;

Why Chief Javert was headed for the county seat was for the same reasons as before. He knew – _knew_ – beyond a doubt that Mr. Madeline, honored and revered mayor of Astoria, was that same man: Jean Valjean. And so, Javert drove into the night, downing cups of coffee to keep himself awake, and was determined to get to the county sheriff's office and make him see reason; Mr. Madeline – or Jean Valjean – was a criminal on the loose, possibly very dangerous, and must be apprehended at all costs.

And this was Mr. Javert's sacred mission: to make sure that Valjean remained locked in a jail cell for the rest of his days!

...

Fantine was not aware of any of this. Nor was she aware that the man that had saved she and her daughter's life was an ex-convict. No one knew, except Javert. It mattered not, for Fantine was in a state of delusion, having terrible pneumonia. Her fever raged, she coughed incessantly. She shook and sweated, and her hands were cold and clammy. The poor girl was in a terrible state.

But one thought kept her clinging to life: Her daughter.

For Mr. Mayor had promised to bring her the child and that Fantine would get well, and that he would re-hire her at his factory. All would be well, he'd promised.

But days had passed, and Madeline still had not been able to go and get the child. But he continued to visit the poor, wretched girl in the hospital, and with each visit, he promised soon, very soon.

But it was on this night when Madeline visited that a doctor drew him aside.

"She's terribly ill sir. She's barely got a prayer."

Madeline had paled. "Surely you can do something?"

"Has she seen her daughter yet?"

"No."

"Bring her the child, or she might never get the chance."

Madeline, distraught, did not know what to do, for he dare not go back into the hospital room and see the dying woman, for he feared his courage would fail him. However, his salvation from seeing Fantine came from a most unexpected source.

"Sir?"

Valjean turned in the hall way and looked behind him. There stood Chief Javert, his long, grey coat dripping, for it was raining cat's and dogs.

"Sir, I have a most seriously grave matter to discuss with you."

Madeline speculated that that was the last thing he needed at the moment, but said "Yes, Javert, what is it?"

Javert's cold, pale eyes looked extremely down trodden, and the man seemed to radiate this terrible unhappiness. "Sir, an officer has grossly insulted a man of higher rank, and has not shown him the respect he deserves. This is a serious matter."

Things like these were always coming up. Since taking command, Javert had tightened and constricted the force until it was the picture of what a good police department ought to be. At first there'd been a lot of complaints and shows of temper tantrums through out, but this had been squashed almost immediately. No one disobeyed Chief Javert.

"And who has complained of the offense?" asked Madeline, very confused. Why was he needed in mere corporal punishment?

Javert looked slightly startled. "Why, you, sir."

Madeline blinked. "Me?"

"Yes."

Madeline blinked again, and then asked "And who is the officer that has offended?"

Now Javert could not meet his eyes, and he was staring intently at the puce carpet that rested below his feet. "I, sir," he said, just barely above a whisper.

Madeline was just about knocked off his feet, and asked a very surprised "What?"

"You see, sir, I've been entertaining these suspicions for quite a while, and at last acted on them."

"And what did you suspect?"

"That you were an ex-convict who broke his parole named Jean Valjean."

Madeline became quickly enraged, but held himself in check.

Javert's cheeks flushed slightly in color, and he nudged the carpet with the toe of his boot. "So, I went to the county police with my suspicions."

"And what did they say?"

"They sad I was mad."

Madeline laughed slightly. "Well!"

Javert looked up now. "They were right, sir."

Madeline placed a hand under his chin and continued to listen, for the police chief was not yet done. "You see, the real Jean Valjean was caught six months ago, and goes on trail tomorrow. Which brings me to my point."

"And that is?"

Javert gulped slightly, and gave a very dejected sigh. "Sir, I most humbly request that you dismiss me at once."

Madeline blinked, gapped. "You mean you want me to fire you? Javert, if you want out so badly, you can just resign."

"No, you see, to do that would be honorable. I have wronged, and deserve punishment. And so, sir, I ask again that you dismiss me from the rank of Chief of Police of Astoria at once."

Madeline continued to stare, and Javert could no longer keep the laborious eye contact, and went back to staring at the carpet. After what seemed like hours of tortured thought, Madeline responded. "No, Chief, I do not think I will dismiss you."

Javert's head shot up, and he opened his mouth to protest, but Madeline held up his hand to silence him. "I certainly don't like being accused of being a convict, but you did the right thing in double checking. You are very valuable, and I do not wish to lose you. No, sir, you will stay."

It was almost a worse blow to Javert's pride to be forgiven, for he was not a merciful man. He simply stood there, and said nothing. He did not trust himself to move.

"You may go now, sir," Madeline said gently.

Javert stood straight, gave a small bow, and turned on his heels, his coat swishing behind him.

...

It was a known fact that Mr. Madeline's already grey hair went stark white that night, as he passed back and forth through his study, going mad with confusion and utter terror.

Doubtless, the reader, not unlike Javert, has suspicions of Mr. Madeline as an ex-convict as well. To be perfectly frank, the poor, wretched men were one and the same. Mr. Madeline, the beloved mayor of Astoria, was none other than Jean Valjean.

And so, close to tears, so torn was he, Valjean walked ceaselessly along the rug. What to do? What to do? Where to go, what to say?

He did, however, decide where to go: The church.

The Catholic church was still open, though there were only a few priests there, and so, at the rail of the alter, Valjean did what he did best: knelt and prayed.

"You must not go to the court tomorrow, Valjean," half of him said. "If you go, you will betray your guilt, and then the factory will surly be shut down, and the town go back into shambles. Astoria needs it's benevolent mayor! You would trade your happy life for a man you don't even know? You would trade the happy lives of people you do for him?"

Silently, the old man continued to cry at the alter, praying, begging, for some holy sign.

"Please God, guide my hand. I am lost on a dark path, and I do not know which way to turn! Please, God above, I beg of you!" he internally cried, his plea reaching forth to saints and angels as he lit candle after candle.

"You must go, Valjean," the other half of him said. "For if you do not, then you will have allowed an innocent man to suffer the fate you should have had. You will be damned to hell for your selfishness and pride. Take self sacrifice, Valjean, for this man has not earned this fate!"

But Valjean knew that if he stayed, he would be living a lie. Who did he think he was kidding? He was pulling the wool over the eyes of all of Astoria!

Well, not all of it.

For Javert had figured things out, and now, the only man with any reason had been cast down. Valjean could easily continue to live the life of Mr. Madeline, successful business man, and kind mayor of Astoria, who had the respect of everyone in the county!

But it would not have been easy to live this half life, for it was not his. It wasn't anybody's, for Madeline had never existed. He could not be someone he wasn't.

Madeline was Jean Valjean, and he would have to remain as such!

And, with his terrible purpose in heart, still crying slightly, Valjean left the church, and went to his car, intent on reaching the county court and jail.

...

"I'm sorry, sir," the guard told Valjean once he'd arrived at the court house. "But the trial's already started. I suppose I might be able to let you in, since you're the mayor, and all, but there are no seats left, and wouldn't want to force you to stand."

Valjean gave the young guard a kind smile. "Do not worry about my standing. I don't mind it, but I must get into that court room, sir. You must let me in. It is a matter of absolutely grave importance."

The guard blinked, surprised. "Well, yes, sir, if it's that terribly important, of course I'll let you in. But sir, what is it?"

Valjean smiled sadly again. "You will know very shortly."

And so, the young officer unlocked the door and let the poor man in.

Valjean blinked slightly, for it was brighter inside the court room than it was in the hall. It was very crowded indeed, though he didn't know why that surprised him. Quietly, he stepped inside, dodging reporters, who took no notice of him. He could see a confused jury, staring at the subject with intense interest.

The subject was a poor man named Champmathieu. He was, not unlike Valjean had once been, a mechanic. He was in his fifties, and still working, sickly and old. He was paid as little as possible, always, and he would probably be working until he died.

Unless, as Javert wanted, he died in prison.

"Once more," the D.A. said, obviously agitated with the rather stupid man, "with all the evidence placed before you, how can you still deny that you are Jean Valjean? Look!" here he pointed at a man not quite into his middle ages yet. "Officer Rowe has identified you. Several witnesses have identified you! Even Chief Javert has identified you. Do you deny it, sir?"

The poor man was begging for his life, as little as it was worth to the court. "I'm not, sir, I'm honestly not! I know I got some of the questions wrong, maybe lied on some things. Well, I was not lying, I tell you! I am an old man, and have forgotten many things. You said take your best guess, so I guessed. No, sir, I am not the man you want!" Little Champmathieu was close to tears. "On God, I swear, I'm not!"

Finally, Valjean, the real Valjean, could stand it no more. "He is right!"

Hundreds of pairs of eyes whirled to face the man who had spoken, and the reporters had drawn away from him so as the cameras could get him into focus. Gulping, Valjean noted the judge's gaze, the jury's, the District Attorney's, the Defense Attorney's, his parole officer, James Rowe, and most keen of all, Javert.

For a moment, Valjean stared right back at the hawked eyed man that had denounced him days before.

"I am the real Jean Valjean."

The D. A. stared in disbelief, as did Officer Rowe, so, smiling a sad, terrible smile, Valjean stepped up. "You do not believe me, sirs?"

"Mr. Madeline, I think you've lost your senses, but I will not have you interrupting my court room!" sounded the judge. "Do you not see clearly, sir?"

"No, I am the only one who sees clearly here." He now turned to Rowe, and had the absolutely stunned man look him in the eyes. "Rowe, you do not remember me? You were there the day they released me. When I begged to call in for my parole check in, you agreed, do you remember? You agreed because I was going to walk all the way to Milwaukie to find my sister. You remember, yes?"

Rowe stared at him much like a fish, leaning in to get a better look. "Yes..... I remember."

"Sadly, I never found my sister.... Who else will be proof enough that I am Jean Valjean?" He turned and faced Javert, who was glaring at him coldly. "Ah, my police chief. Javert, you will tell them, please? You will tell them I am Jean Valjean?"

Javert set his jaw and did not move, feeling as though some terrible joke were being played on him. Valjean turned to the judge again.

"I have a feeling my wonderful police chief is under appreciated. You must promote him, some time, sir, if it is in your power. For he was the only one, the only one at all! He alone could see who I really was." He turned again, and shuddered under that terrible stare. "Yes, the clever man knew."

Begging in his eyes, Valjean looked up at the judge. "I suppose you ought to arrest me immediately, sir, but I must beg you not to do that just yet. You see, I have unfinished business in Astoria. I promised a woman I would bring her her child, and I have been untrue to that promise. However, I understand that I mustn't go running about until an arrangement has been made."

Javert had stood up, and was about ready to order several officers to arrest that man, but the judge gave Javert a piercing stare, so he sat right down again. Valjean watched his adversary for a moment. "I will be in Astoria. Mr. Javert knows where to find me. Thank God I did as I did today."

And with that, the man turned and left, walking out of the court room, and past the utterly confused guard.

...

Fantine blinked, slightly tired, as a sad, and smiling Mr. Madeline came to her hospital room once more to visit her.

"I was told by the doctors you took a long trip. To fetch my daughter? Is that why you left, sir?" An angelic glow lit the martyr woman's face, her heart beat racing at the thought of her beloved little child.

Valjean avoided her eyes. What to say? How on earth could he bring her the child now? "I was-"

He stopped, for Fantine was not listening, but staring with great joy towards the hall, where the sound of children echoed playfully. "My daughter! You did bring her! Oh, she is so grown up now! She will not remember her mother."

"No, of course she remembers you. She talks of nothing else."

Fantine absolutely beamed with pleasure. "I will see her soon? Those doctors are terrible! They say I will over excite myself and hurt my heart."

Very seriously, Madeline agreed. "Yes, that is why you cannot see her right now. Get some sleep, take some rest. Maybe you will be well enough to see her in the morning."

"Oh, but sir, I am well enough!"

Valjean clutched the woman's clammy hand, her skin pale from sickness. She was so young...... "No, I think you should...."

He stopped again, for the woman was looking at the door way again, but not in joy, but in complete terror. Her face drained of what little color was left, and her eyes were easily the size of bowling balls.

"Good God, Fantine, what is the matter?" Madeline cried, quite shocked.

Valjean turned in his seat, to see the overbearing, terrible face of Javert, staring straight at him.

The powerful man had a terrible grin on his face, so radiant with subvert power that it was almost evil, the way he smiled. His pale eyes glowed sharply, his dark hair was wet, for it was still raining. In fact, all of his clothes were wet, for he had not even grabbed a jacket.

A nurse in the hall was angrily ordering that he leave the hall at once, for he had no visitation rights. Three police men, on call, and ready to order back up if necessary, asked her to please calm down, but it was Javert finally snapping "Shut up, woman!" before she indignantly skittered off to find a doctor to tell the man off.

With a terrible air of utter and complete confidence, Javert haughtily strode into the room, laughing a terrible laugh.

"What does the world come to, when whores are pampered like duchesses, and convicts are magistrates? It shall be fixed! It is time."

Fantine clung to Madeline's hand, her sickened mind sure he had come for her. "Oh God, save me, Mr. Madeline!"

Valjean patted her hand, and reassured her, though he felt little reassurance himself. "Remain calm. He has not come for you." He then rose from his chair and tried to look the chief of police in the eye. "I know why you have come," he said simply.

"Move along, then."

Valjean did not move, though it wasn't in disobedience. "A moment, please, Javert-" he began.

"Chief of Police, 24601. You will call me Chief Javert, for I am the superior now!"

Valjean was clearly embarrassed, but remained humble, and said, very softly. "Chief Javert, I beg of you, give-"

"What's that? Talk aloud! People talk aloud to me!"

Valjean clenched his fist, but kept his arms tightly to his side. Lifting his eyes from the other man's shoes, Valjean gave a burning glare at the man. "Give me three days to fetch the woman's child!"

That was enough to shock Fantine half to death.

"My daughter, she isn't here? Cosette, Cosette! Where is my Cosette?"

"Be silent, woman!" Javert ordered tersely to the girl. "As for you, Valjean, you must think me a fool! I would let you go for three days, and in that time you would have slipped through my fingers. It is so, yes? No, you are to come with me at once!"

"No, I swear to God I wouldn't!" protested Valjean, begging. "You may come with me, if you want! Please, Javert, by God, I beg of you!"

"Absolutely not!"

Fantine lurched from the bed to grab Valjean's hand, placing it to her icy cheek. "Sir, tell me my daughter is here! Tell me where to find her!"

Valjean had tears in his as he stared back at the woman.

"Please, Mr. Madeline, I beg of you, bring me my daughter!"

"Be quiet, you miserable little tart! I said shut up!" Javert shouted. "Your worthless child is not here, and the man you so adore, your Mr. Madeline is not here either!"

"What? Mr. Mayor, don't let him say these things!"

"Did you not hear me? There is not Mr. Mayor now! There is only a scoundrel, a liar, a thief!"

He seized Valjean by his collar, his large hand fastening around his throat. Not chocking, just holding.

Fantine gave a quick intake of breath, a look of intense pain crossed her face, and she clutched at her chest. Without a sound, she fell back on the bed, and lay still.

She was dead.

White hot rage poured through Valjean's veins, and he ripped the police chief from his throat, tossing him down to the floor. In less time then it takes to blink, he'd slammed and locked the heavy door, leaving the officers stranded outside, who'd only just been getting ready to fire at the man. They knew it would be useless to fire, for even if the bullets did penetrate the thick door, they risked shooting Javert, whom they could not see.

The two men were now throwing punches at each other, and in a split second, Valjean had ripped Javert's gun from it's holster, and had it aimed at the disarmed man's heart.

"I suggest you leave me be for a moment," he seethed, and the glowering Javert did not move.

Very steadily, Valjean kneeled at the edge of Fantine's bed, taking her icy hand in his. He very carefully kissed it, and said, his eyes up turned to Heaven, tears in his eyes, "By God, I swear Fantine. I will take care of your daughter!" He then watched the lifeless face, whose expression was very soft, and calm, almost happy, as though she'd found some sort of pleasure in merely being able to see her beloved from on high again.

After these last words, Javert tackled his adversary and wrested the gun from him. He unlocked the door, ordered his men to arrest Valjean at once, and read him his rights.

For all the scuffle, Valjean went very quietly and without consequence. Javert, who was forming a rather nasty bruise on his cheek, walked behind, this terrible glow of triumph radiating from his face.

And yet, Valjean did not seem so down trodden, though he raised his eyes to every cross he passed in the hall.

"God will not let me down," he thought. "And I won't let you down, Cosette."

**To Be Continued.....**


	4. On the Wings of a Dream

**Come and Go: Chapter Four: On the Wings of a Dream**

It so happened that outside of Seaside, a few miles up the coast, the USS Orion was docked. She was growing too old to do many more sea voyages, and would soon be merely a piece in a museum.

But not yet.

At the moment, she was being cleaned down by convicts from the local prison. It was quite a sight to see; hundreds of men from all walks of life were all scrubbing away on the deck, or, by use of pulleys, were adding fresh coats of paint to her sides.

Things are easily over looked. A piece of frayed rope is simple to miss when dealing with hundreds of yards of rope. That is why it should not have been a surprise when one of the ropes that supported one of the convicts snapped.

Surprised, the guards raced to the starboard bow, trying to see if there was a way to save the man, who would soon fall to his death unless rescued. It would take a figure of immense strength to do the task.

One of the guards was nearly pounced upon by an old convict, his hair completely white. "Sir," the man begged, "let me be the one to save him."

The guard was taken completely by surprised, and stared, blinking, slack jawed. He glanced at his companion, who shrugged. "Suit yourself," he agreed.

"I'll need some rope."

The guard pointed to another convict. "You there! Go get this man some rope!"

Tense seconds passed. The rope was brought. The convict tied the knots carefully and intricately, finally starting to lower himself down. His hands were cramping, his muscles were shuddering. Such an old man should not do such an immense task. No matter, the man wanted to do it.

Minutes ticked by. On deck, people were holding their breath. Finally, the white haired convict reached his luckless compatriot, and the man carefully transferred ropes. The white haired rescuer was clearly quite tired by his adventure. Prisoners started lifting the rope, fearing that he could not rely upon his strength to bring him back up to the surface.

And, indeed, he could not.

Soundlessly, his hands slid from the rope, and he plunged into the sea. Screams, gasps, shouts, cries could be heard on board. People were quickly dispatched to try and find the hero. It was no use. The convict had been swallowed by the relentless waters.

The Pacific Ocean is not a forgiving ocean. She is not a friendly ocean. She is not a sweet ocean. She is cold, she is salty, she is deep, she is dark. Even on her more calm days, her waves will relentlessly pound against the cliff side. Her brine and sea foam are as violent as they are beautiful. Her shores are not like European beaches, or East coast beaches. They are rocky shores, sometimes cliffs that merely go straight up and down. They are wild, inhospitable, and recklessly seductive.

The chances of so old a fellow surviving the wiles of such an ocean are slim.

The search was quickly given up.

…

"Cosette! Go and fetch the mop!"

The child – a term so liberally applied by the way she was treated – shuddered. Huddled next to the furnace to keep warm inside the basement, she could hear, clear as a bell, the sound of the Thenardiess' voice, and her firm, unforgiving step above her. The door to the basement was flung open, and the silhouette of Mrs. Thenardier was cast upon the cement steps.

"Cosette!" the woman – another loosely applied term – shrieked again.

"I'm coming, ma'am!" was the frightened cry. She quickly snatched the mop from where it rested, and hurried up the steps under the merciless eye of the Thenardiess.

"Clean up room 25," she snapped, pressing the master key into the child's red, blistered hand. "The sink overflowed because you were careless enough to leave the tap on, you little brat!"

"The Little Brat," wrung her hands and bowed down to the woman's feet, uttering a thousand small apologies. Mrs. Thenardier merely aimed a kick at her – this meant that she was forgiven – and shouted for her to hurry up.

Cosette snatched up the bucket on her way out the door, and wordlessly skittered through the ill-furnished lobby, out the front door.

And into the cold.

A freezing gust of wind came down from the north, chilling the child, dressed inappropriately for the weather, to her bones. The only clothes Cosette ever had were things that Eponine had outgrown, or taken a dislike to. Most of these things were hideous, stained, torn, or threadbare by the time they reached The Little Brat, but she never complained of this. After all, if she complained, she ran the risk of being beaten, which she severely disliked.

Madame Thenardier, who doted upon her two daughters, Eponine and Azelma, despised Cosette. By giving the merest bone to the third, she felt she was depriving her own two progeny. Ponine and Zelma were, thusly, coddled all the more with whatever their heart desired, to make up for whatever Cosette seemed to force them to lack.

Cosette had turned five, so she gathered, because she seemed to vaguely remember that she was the same age as Eponine, who had turned five last month. Ponine's birthday was celebrated with a wonderful and glorious party. Cosette's was ignored. However, the child had counted herself lucky enough; she'd been allowed a small portion of cake.

The mop, clutched in the child's red, chapped hands, was taller than she was, and she worked it with some difficulty. She could barely reach the doorknob to room 25, and would not have been able to slip the key in had not a remarkable thing happened.

A large, scarred hand clasped over Cosette's own, and an arm encircled her thin waste. She was lifted up, and, trembling, yet not afraid, the girl slid the key into the lock, and twisted. The arms put her down, turned the handle of the door, and pushed it open.

"Here, let me help you with that," the owner of the arms said. His voice – an old, but sturdy voice – was dark and deep, and very sweet and kind. Cosette was constantly scolded by the Thenardiess that she mustn't talk to strangers, mostly because no one wanted to talk with a little word-unfit-for-repetition like her. She had gathered that things that were unknown were to be feared, and yet, five – oh, sweet, trusting age! – year old Cosette was not afraid. That is to say, she was five, but looked three or four, from lack of care.

Cosette had taken the broom and the bucket up again, and lifted her homely little face to see the stranger. He was about fifty-five, with light blue eyes, and very white hair. He was smiling patiently down at Cosette, and she felt unafraid; he wasn't going to hurt her.

"Thank you, sir," she replied meekly. Cosette was never helped with any of her chores. Kind words were strangers to her small, red ears. Suddenly, she felt embarrassed, for he was still smiling, and she quickly looked down, blushing, and entered the dark room. She set the mop and bucket down, turning the bucket over so she could stand on it. In this way, she endeavored to reach the light switch. Wordlessly, the man followed her into the room, and clicked the light on for her. Amazed – two good deeds to her in one day was well over a record – she stared at him again, but did not say thank you. The man was still smiling.

Cosette quickly scrambled down from the bucket, and dragged it, along with the shaggy mop, into bathroom. Setting the bucket upside down again, she turned off the sink, and got down, shaking her shoes a little, since all the water on the floor had made them wet. Her feet were cold, but then, they were perpetually cold. Her shoes were worn, close to loosing their soles. She turned the bucked over again, and, mop in hand, began her vain attempt at trying to dry the floor. The man stood in the bathroom door way for only a moment, pitying this poor creature – could she really be called a child? He exhaled a sad breath, and took the mop from the girl's red hands.

"Here," he explained, gently brushing her to one side, "let me do it."

Gazing at him as though he were a saint – and he probably was – she let him take the mop from her, and he began to scrub the floor. It was done in less than half the time it would have taken Cosette. He smiled at her when he was done, wringing the mop into the bucket one final time before pouring the water from the bucket into the bathtub.

"What is your name?" he asked, carrying the mop and bucket to the door while she followed meekly.

"Cosette," she answered simply.

The man suddenly stopped, and he looked down at her. His already sweet face perpetually glowed; he radiated this supreme happiness that Cosette could not understand, but it warmed her as well. A fire is not limited to warming one soul, no matter how small the flame. Such is happiness.

The man turned off the light and opened the door, helping Cosette to lock it again. She tugged at his sleeve, and he smiled, asking what she wanted.

"May I take my bucket and my mop now?" she asked him softly, and he frowned slightly.

"Why? I don't mind carrying it."

"Yes, but if Mrs. Thenardier sees that someone helped me, she will beat me."

The old man blanched, and whispered "Here," handing them to her. They walked on in silence until they reached the lobby, where the Thenardiess sat behind the counter, reading one of her trashy romance novels.

"It certainly took you long enough, you miserable little toad," she snarled, not looking up. It had taken no more than ten minutes at most, and yet it generally took Cosette three quarters of an hour to complete such a task. The man was scowling darkly, but he resiliently kept his mouth shut.

"A gentleman wants to spend the night, Mrs. Thenardier," whimpered the child, who quickly scurried away with the mop and bucket, with movements like a spider. The Thenardiess looked up from her book, and saw the man, who was beginning to take off his threadbare coat. She scowled, doubting that he had the means to pay.

"Hello, sir," she said with a rather rude, superior air. "We have plenty of rooms, and a dinning room if you're interested in dinner, but you have to pay in _advance_." The man was apparently quite used to such rude treatment, for he brushed over it as if it were nothing.

"How much?" he asked sociably.

"Sixty dollars a night, excluding dinner." It was thirty dollars a night, not sixty.

"All right," he replied, taking his wallet from his pocket, laying three twenties on the counter. Mrs. Thenardier watched the bills hungrily, quickly scooping them up with her fat fingers.

"There's fire in the den, if you're interested," she said, much more sweetly. "I'll have a room made ready for you."

"Thank you, I'll wait in the den." With that, still carrying his threadbare coat, he walked into the little side room, filled with old, worn chairs, and a gas fire place. Scowling at his back, the Thenardiess lifted each bill successively to the light, examining them carefully. They were real. Satisfied, she put the money in the till, and went about her business.

The first thing she did was to shout down to Cosette to ready a room – she had retreated back to her nook by the furnace – and the next was to find her husband. He was watching football in the back, and listened with some interest as his wife relayed to him the story of the man who looked a pauper, but paid a prince. Mr. Thenardier hummed, and collected a few magazine's and the day's paper, and went to the den. He passed little Cosette on his way there, who was staggering under the load of linens to take to the gentleman's room, and scurried away from Thenardier with the agility of a stray kitten, which was what she resembled. Mrs. Thenardier went back to the desk, saw the child carrying the burden, and snapped at her not to drop a single fold onto the floor. The girl responded with a muffled "Yes, ma'am."

The Thenardiess was the one who paid the most attention to Cosette, however unfavorable the attention was. Mr. Thenardier held absolutely no interest in her. She was just "that girl," "what's her name," and occasionally "Cosette." Mostly she was "the cash cow," but the cash cow hadn't been producing any milk. They figured Fantine had abandoned her, the ungrateful wench!

Undoubtedly, Fantine was watching her daughter devotedly from heaven, and crying that she was so mistreated.

Thenardier humbly entered the den and laid the magazines and papers onto the coffee table. The man had picked up an ancient copy of Time and had been flipping through that when Mr. Thenardier walked in.

"Good evening, sir," the inn keeper said jovially. "I trust you have had a pleasant trip?"

The man nodded. "Yes, thank you."

Thenardier stood there for close to two minutes, though nothing was said between the two. He was just about to leave when the man suddenly asked "That little girl….Are you her father?"

"What little girl?"

"The one who is cleaning up my room."

"Oh, Cosette. No."

The man seemed very relived at this, and ventured to ask "Where are her parents?"

"They left her on the door step of the church," Mr. Thenardier replied, sitting down. "My wife – she's such a kind hearted soul – could not stand to see the poor foundling abandoned, and took her in when she was but this tall, sir!" He motioned about to the middle of his calf with his hand. "However, times are very hard, and with two little girls of my own, we can only just scrape by some months."

The man looked solemn, and nodded understandingly.

"If the gentlemen could possibly see his way to donating…we do work hard, and bear our burdens with the best, but with three daughters to raise…." Thenardier licked his dry lips, his beady eyes staring in a manner that was supposed to be endearing. It was closer to revolting.

Without a word, the man dug into his coat pocket and placed two more twenties on the coffee table, which Mr. Thenardier scooped up, thanking him profusely.

"The bastard's practically rich!" he related to his wife in the safety and security of the back room. "We've got to milk him for all he's worth."

"Of course, darling," she responded, stoking his ego as best she could.

…

The next morning, little Cosette was struggling under a stack of newspapers to be delivered to each room. Huffing, her red fingers tightened on the shaky tower, when without warning, a large number were suddenly lifted away.

"Let me take the rest."

Cosette stared wide eyed up at the same man as before, the same smiling saint, the copies of _The Oregonian _tucked under his arm. Mechanically, her hands clenched on the papers he left her and shook her head, by no means ungrateful, just wary.

"Mrs. Thenardier might get mad," she explained, and the kind old man frowned sympathetically.

"And where are you off to this morning, little Cosette?" he asked, walking with her down the hall and setting down papers where she'd told him to. "Don't you have school?"

The child shook her head.

"Then where are the other two girls?"

Cosette did not recall having mentioned Ponine or Zelma to the man, but did not question it. "School," she replied simply.

The man's brow furrowed in puzzlement. "Why aren't you with them?"

"I am home schooled," she explained. "Mrs. Thenardier teaches me."

"And what does she teach you?"

"To cook, and clean, and make a bed, and fold the towels. She sometimes teaches me math and reading. That is very fun!" she cried, her eyes glittering in an excited memory.

The man's scowl had deepened. "And when do you play?"

"I don't play."

"But surely…" He couldn't think of what came after that.

"Sometimes, if I work very, very hard, or Ponine and Zelma need an extra person, I am allowed to play."

Before the little thing could protest, the man had taken the rest of the papers from her, whispering in a very solid way "Here, let me take that." It was a manner in which refused protest, and she felt that she'd said something wrong. He seemed angry, and it made her tremble just a little bit.

Finally, after what seemed to be a very long time, he asked her "Would you like to go away, Cosette?"

Confused, the child blinked her large, dark eyes. "Away?" Was such a concept possible?

"Then you could learn to read and write, and you could have pretty things, and play all the time…"

"I…I…" She did. But she couldn't, could she? "But Mrs. Thenardier-"

"There would be no Mrs. Thenardier."

No Mrs. Thenardier? Now surely that was just a dream world!

"You are teasing me," she muttered sadly. He bent down and placed a kiss on her hand, which confused her.

"I am not. I would like to take you away, and make you very happy."

Cosette blinked again, still very astounded. "I would like that very much. But…But I can't go. I have to water the hedges."

"Not after today."

…

"I have a proposition for you."

Thenardier put the sports section of the paper down, glancing in a slightly confused manner at the same man as before.

"I'm always open for propositions," he replied smoothly, swiping away the paper with a movement of his hand.

"The girl, Cosette. How would you like to be rid of her."

"Rid of her, sir?" the man cried, affecting hurt. "Why, she is my jewel! I could never stand to part with her!"

The man dug a fat wad of bills from his pocket and slid them onto the counter. Thenardier could not help but watch them.

"I think you could."

After a moment's hesitation, Mr. Thenardier declined again. "You can't possibly buy her out of my life. That is unethical."

"How much is it that you're look for, sir?"

Thenardier fumbled. "But…I would need your name, where she was going. I would have to visit her, at least sometimes. That way I would know that she wasn't….that is to say…." A gleam in the stranger's eyes forced the rest of the sentence out. "There are bad people in the world today. Sexual perverts who would do evil things to a child. I'm not saying that you're one of those people, sir, not at all! I'm sure you're just as much against them as I am. However, since I don't know you…."

"There are bad people in the world," the man approved mechanically with a nod. He knew this because he was looking at one of them. "I can promise you, I am not one of those people. Cosette would be well taken care of. And you will have no name, nor location, nor contact of any kind."

"All the same…."

The man slid another fat wad of bills onto the counter, glaring a look that defied all protests.

"My wife will be loathed to part with her," he tried.

"Time heals all wounds. I'll go fetch the child."

"Well…yes. Yes, of course."

…

The odd man had handed Cosette a bundle of clothes – a pretty dark shirt, with matching pants. There were real, thick socks, and shiny black shoes with a daisy on the buckle, and a thick wool coat – something Cosette had never had – along with mittens.

"Here, these are yours, go and put them on," he'd said. Cosette had stared at them for a moment, before, a feeling of terrible, wonderful wickedness in her, she snatched them up and rushed to change. They felt like nothing Cosette had ever owned before. They were thick, and dark, and they weren't dirty and they didn't have holes. They fit her just perfectly, and weren't stretched out or stained at all. She felt so terribly pretty that it was amazing. This must be how princesses felt every day.

She'd come back to the man, modeling her new garb proudly, if a little nervously. He'd grinned and motioned her to him. "You look so pretty! Come here, let's take care of your hair." He'd pulled out a comb, attacking the snarls and snags in her dark, dirty hair. And yet, his rough fingers were very gentle, and the brave little child did not once whimper or cry aloud. Unskillfully, he clipped the static filled mess back with two barrettes, and it looked better, though far from perfect.

"You look very lovely! Your mother would be so proud of you," he praised, still smiling. "Do you have any toys?" She shook her head. "Is there anything you want to take with you?" She shook her head again. "Here, this is also yours." And from his ratty bag he produced a brand new teddy bear, a red ribbon tied around his thick, fuzzy brown neck. Cosette gasped, astounded at the sight, for it was even more glorious than even Ponine's bear, but she did not reach out to take it. The old man frowned slightly. "Go on, take it. It's yours." Very, very hesitantly, as though fearing a trap, Cosette reached out and touched the bear.

Nothing happened.

The old man gave her an encouraging look, and before she could stop herself, she'd reached out and pulled the bear to her, delighting in the fuzzy, sweet smelling stuffed toy, giggling in what was the first time in she didn't know how long. It was a sweet sound to the ear.

The old man took her hand, and they pranced out the door, the merriest pair in existence.

"Where are we going?" she asked, not the least bit afraid.

"To Portland. Do you know where that is? Have you ever been there?" She shook her head. "It is a big, marvelous city. You'll love it, I promise. And we'll live together, and you'll play, and go to school, and be very, very happy."

Grinning, the child swung their arms back and forth as they walked toward the man's car. "Who are you?" she finally asked. "Are you an angel?"

He smiled bitter sweetly at her. "I'm not an angel."

"Then, are you my papa?"

The man practically glowed at the sound of the name. "Yes, Cosette, I'm your papa now. And I'll always take care of you, and love you." He opened the door to the car and helped her in, carefully buckling her seat. "Watch your fingers," he said, and shut the door, coming around to the driver's seat.

"I think you are an angel," she contradicted as he reversed and pulled out of the lot. And the man smiled.

**To Be Continued….**


End file.
